


Banana Slippers

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You are barely sobering up before landing somewhere wholly different, with only a cowboy by your side.





	1. A Good Life's Rest

The fresh night air, breezing past while you stood on your balcony, was very welcoming. It was exactly 04:27AM- the perfect time to enjoy a cigarette on your balcony. Your 2 square meter balcony, but hey- at least you could sober up a bit by standing in the freezing cold.

The fancy dress party, where you’d gotten absolutely hammered, had been a blast- with you not being the designated driver for once, and most of your friends keeping up with the countless glasses of wine that emptied quicker than you could say ‘wasted’.

You hadn’t kept your entire outfit on; you’d traded your sleek black pumps for your comfy banana-slippers and had loosened your tie so you could breathe. Or at least feel like you could breathe better. Your hand had definitely stumbled- though you weren’t drunk anymore, there was still the quiet, warm buzz at the back of your head that made everything more lighthearted and less coordinated.

You could still make out the whirring and grumbling of your coffee machine- trying to keep up and make you the latest- or earliest- coffee you’d be drinking in quite a while. Your eyes were also trying to keep up- the night air was making them tear up and you had trouble focusing on the night sky.

So when you forgot your door opened the way it did and how you had to be careful when opening it, you tumbled off of the balcony and managed to hold on for dear life to the railing.

Instantly, you were sober. You could feel your sweaty fingers sliding down and you could hear the ping of your coffee machine. You mumbled an assortment of prayers to a wide array of gods: please don’t let me die, please don’t let me fall, please wake up the neighbours.

Thinking about the last one made you realize that none of your neighbours were home- there was a gathering of the occupants of the building down the street.

Your hands slipped a little further.

If you were lucky, you might land in the shrubberies- but besides that there was nothing but cold, hard concrete. If you fell down from your floor- the 6th floor- you could hardly imagine a scenario where you didn’t either break your spine or crack your skull open.

Your arms were aching and crying and making your hands slip further.

With a deep breath, you breathed in another haul of prayers: you’ve got things to live for, it shouldn’t end like this, you were destined for more, what would happen to your family, what about your friends, all the wasted money on university-

The falling itself was less fast than you thought it would be. That might be because you saw your life flash before your eyes, melting together with the starry sky- but you definitely didn’t think you’d feel as though you were falling in a pool.

No matter though- almost as soon as the sensation hit you, unconsciousness did too.

* * *

You don’t quite remember ordering  yourself to sit up- but it’s what your body does, and your first thoughts are a string of ‘what’ and ‘how’.

Mainly because you are neither in heaven nor hell, nor an ambulance or any kind of hospital. You are not on the ground, cradled by a helpful passerby, and you’re not a ghost- you know this because you are still very much not see-through. You were sure the moment your vision and thoughts went black, that your light would go out forever- but it seemed like that was not the case.

You take a deep breath- looking down at your hands even though there’s only a little bit of moonlight shining through what looks to be a hole, you let your hands feel your legs and face and confirm that it’s still properly attached to your body. Maybe it’d been a dream? Maybe you’d actually been so wasted you fell asleep on the floor and had a nightmare. But your walls didn’t have such specific, circular holes- and you were sure you’d be seeing a sunset instead of a sundown.

The most worrying thing, perhaps, is that there were definite signs that someone else either was here at the moment- you couldn’t see because the moon didn’t give off that much light, and your eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness of night- or would be returning here any moment.

You guessed your gut feeling came from the cowboy hat haphazardly placed on a small table in front of you, or the distinct smell of used blankets. That, and you had a feeling you were sitting on some mud stains left by shoes.

As if on cue, a growly snore rumbles through the- what would you call it, a cabin? Flat, perhaps? Or maybe it was a house?- and you stiffen, completely still.

You’d been kidnapped.

But then why weren’t you hurt?

Surely that would be strange if you were kidnapped by a doctor who miraculously healed you without leaving any scars and simultaneously felt comfortable enough to leave you unrestrained.

Were you kidnapped?

You could feel the cold chill of a panic attack run down your spine- a lump in your throat that made it harder to breathe even though breathing was something you desperately needed- the clutching grasp on your chest and a haziness in your head. You had to run.

You _had_ to run.

But where do you run?

Is your assailant armed? What if he woke up and just shot you to pieces, or grapples you to the floor and leaves you unconscious with a concussion?

You feel around your pockets to find that your cellphone was still there- you let out the slightest gasp of relief and take a look at the locked screen. Your screensaver was still the same- the date and time correct, somewhat, the random cat with a funny hat still in place.

But no reception. No Wi-Fi. No connection to any kind of internet.

So no calling the police.

You scramble to unlock it and try to check your location- but there’s no internet, which you only remember after clicking, and you feel like chucking the useless phone through one of the button-sized holes.

Well, that leaves running.

Quietly, you get up- making sure to move your feet carefully so your slippers don’t make any awkward noises, and you take off your suit vest on the off-chance that the wrinkles might startle the sleeping beauty.

And you do it- though slowly- you can make out a rickety door and manage to get your hand on the handle before taking a deep breath- just a few more shuffles and-

“What do you think y’re doing there, darlin’?”

You freeze. You can practically feel the gun pointed at you, though it isn’t touching anything- and from the low voice- though tired- you’re guessing that this guy isn’t up for a debate.

Slowly, you turn your head so you can see him out of the corner of your eye: “Escaping.”

You’re croaking because the hangover is still strong in this one, and suddenly you feel like the beer’s going to come back up with a vengeance. Great. Nausea.

“Seems to me you were doin’ more of a breakin’ and enterin’.”

He cocks the gun and if it was possible, you would’ve frozen up even more.

Still, it doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t think you’re supposed to be here? So perhaps you weren’t kidnapped?

“You didn’t kidnap m-“

You dry heave and have to slump into a more comfortable position, leaning with one hand on the door instead of trying to open it.

“Sorry,” you croak again, “hangover. You didn’t kidnap me?”

You hold down another dry heave. God, you don’t want to puke right now. What kind of timing would that be?

“I don’t see why I would be so inclined to kidnap a dry-heavin’ mess.”

Rude.

You stand up slightly again- finally able to measure up what you’re going up against. A tall guy, probably around your age- with a gun, an old kind of gun- and a pretty broad chest. You can’t make out half his face but he does have some longer hairs, ruffled because he probably hauled ass out of bed to threaten you.

“Well, I don’t fucking-“ your coarseness reaches a high note on the curse, cracking your voice down even more.

The panic had suppressed your headache before but now it was coming back full force- you break out in sweats and completely lean against the poor door now.

The stranger lowers his gun slightly.

“You’re serious?” he asks then, probably sizing you up.

“I fell off my balcony. Woke up here. All signs point to kidnapping.”

Your sentences are messy and half the words don’t sound like they’re supposed to.

“Lady, I spent all of yesterday evenin’ robbin’ a train. I doubt I had the energy to up an’ kidnap,” he pauses and raises his hand, motioning to the entirety of you in a slightly insulting way, “this.”

“Real smooth-“ you manage to gasp out before nausea hits you harder and you barely have time to turn- puking on the random man in the room seems like a bad idea, so you puke all over the coat hanger to your left instead.

“I swear to high heavens above-“he hisses- you don’t see it but there are several bright lights shining through the button-sized holes and that clearly alarms him.

“Look, lady,” he whispers while you’re still wiping up and regaining control of your organs as he hauls you up by one arm, “it’s either stayin’ here or runnin’ with me. Cops are onto us.”

“ _Us_?” you whisper, “What’d _I_ do?”

“Nothin’, honey, but you are here with a criminal so you’ll be a part of this here right now.”

You slap his hand away with a vengeance, but it doesn’t quite have much of an impact.

“So you _are_ a criminal!”

He tightens his grip on your arm.

“I ain’t got time for high and mighty. Are you stayin’ here or runnin’ with me?”

On instinct, you plant your knee significantly close to his nether regions. He doesn’t show too much panic, instead of the slight leaning back.

“I can’t make informed decisions when you are invading my personal space-“ the last part of that sentence is barely audible, a mere husk of a voice. You shouldn’t drink that much. Or shouldn’t have drank that much, at least.

“Girl, I’m losin’ my-“

He growls his way into a threat but you- in a magnificent display of ‘fight’ in ‘fight or flight’ nail him right in the groin. His gun tumbles to the ground and he leans over more, the grip on your arm still tight as ever.

“You are ruinin’ my life-“

“I am supposed to be dead!” you hiss out, and the weight of it hits you harder than before.

You’re supposed to be dead- the words echo through your head while the side of the cabin breaks down into splinters, wood flying all over while people dressed in black stand atop the rubble.

You’re supposed to be dead.

There’s yelling to put hands up and get away from each other and there are much larger guns pointed at both of you- the figures remain far away enough except for one shadow moving closer. Thanks to the blinding lights, you can see the man’s face- who’s finally let go of your arm- clearly, and he looks confused- slightly angry and perhaps disappointed as well, but you can also see the look of questioning.

You imagine you’re sporting a similar look.

“Jesse McCree, you and your accomplice are under arrest for 6 counts of robbery, You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future.”

The person who says that has the most amazing voice you’ve ever heard, but you can only seem to hear sounds- your head is still panicking, even while they drag his arms away from yours and cuff him, or when the person who spoke comes closer.

“Ma’am, you’re under arrest.”

You keep looking at the ground- and partly your hands.

The feeling of puking comes back. Maybe if you choked to death you’d end back on your balcony.

“I’m not repeating myself, ma’am. Hands where I can see them and get up.”

“I can’t.”

It’s a whisper, but you genuinely feel faint- the panic attack hits you full force now, rendering you unable to move. Or at least, move your legs.

The person lifts your head, checks your eyes and makes sure you don’t have any external injuries.

When his hands let go you feel like leaning your head back and falling asleep, but are swiftly slapped out of that idea.

Quite hard. The man has quite the backhand.

“No falling asleep. I don’t seem to remember you being in the Deadlock gang. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

You’re both very confused now, even though he does a better job if hiding it.

“I see. Take deep breaths. And no falling asleep.”

He helps you up carefully and lets you hang onto his arm while he cuffs you- you don’t feel like resisting and getting into a tangent about how you have never committed a crime in your life.

You can do that later.


	2. A Multitude of Questions

When you wake up, you are staring at a dull grey ceiling.

“Look who’s awake and kicking.”

It’s the man from yesterday (or at least, from before you fell asleep- or fainted, whatever), but he sounds rather muted. You first think it’s because of you, but when you sit up you notice you are in a cell, and he too, is in a cell. Just a different one. Staring right at you.

Great.

“Not quite kicking yet,” you mutter, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with a yawn.

“You were kickin’ plenty yesterday,” he spits, “you done got me in jail.”

You huff and puff.

“Excuse me? I’m pretty sure you got yourself in jail.”

I mean, you weren’t the police- you didn’t tail him. Heck, you were from a different place, probably. Definitely. You weren’t sure about it.

“Darlin’, if you hadn’t been pukin’ all over my hideout, they wouldn’t’ve noticed us.”

A good retort; only slightly relevant since he doesn’t say anything about being innocent.

“OK, let me put it like this: did you commit a crime?”

“6.”

“Then it’s your own fucking fault,” you say while you turn to look around, finally taking in what the cell looks like- you ignore what he’s spouting next in favour of judging the cell itself. It was simple- a bed, a toilet, a sink and all of it in either pristine white or dull grey.

“…and that’s exactly why it’s your fault,” he says, “bargin’ in on somebody hidin’ out.”

“Look-“ you try to remember the name that was said, but nothing comes to mind, “cowboy, I don’t care. I’ve got other shit to worry about.”

“The whole ‘you’re supposed to be dead’ thing?” he scoffs, “like that’s so-“

He doesn’t continue when you turn back and stare him right in the -admittedly, very pretty, you notice- brown eyes. He’s got a soul patch and a nicely sculpted face.

“I fell off of my balcony. I woke up in your sorry excuse for a hideout. I was supposed to be dead.”

Silence.

“It’s not funny- or a joke- I don’t know where my family or friends are, or where I am, or what really happened, and you are complaining because you’re some petty thief caught red-handed,” you rant- eyes blazing with a newfound kind of rage as he starts getting riled up as well.

“Petty thief? You have some goddamn nerve. I’m-“ 

He pauses suddenly when you both hear a door open somewhere- and he motions for  you to stay quiet with a tanned finger to his lips. You don’t really know why, considering you’re not saying anything special and you’re both already caught- though in your case, unjustly so.

When the footsteps drift off, he continues, “…I’m not just a petty thief, missy, and if it weren’t for your medlin’ I would’ve been fine.”

“Fine and breaking the law,” you snort at him- he’s standing up now, getting closer to the glass door- you’re still comfortably sitting on the bed but at least now you can see his features more clearly, “also, I could care less, considering the existential crisis I’m having.”

He leans a solid, filled-out forearm against the glass and lets the other one rest on his hips as he lets out what seems like a growl.

“Poor lil’ honey, all alone and weepin’ and ruinin’ people’s lives all by herself.”

You get up now, as well- stopping short from the glass as your nose just brushes against it.

“I’ll ruin your fucking life some more if you don’t shut up.”

He’s not impressed. You wouldn’t be either.

“Yap all you want, darlin’, we’re gonna be stuck here for a mighty long time.”

He’s right.

He’s right and you hate it, walking away from the glass after another angry stare- sitting back down on the simple bed and leaning your head in your hands. You could feel your hair be matted and greasy- a mix of sweat and grease and some crusty substance you’d categorize as blood.

You glance at your unwilling cellmate out of the corner of your eye- he’s lit a cigarette and is resting much like you, only he looks infinitely more relaxed.

* * *

You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you know you wake up too early after it- you feel nauseous and tired and your limbs feel like they’ve been walking for miles.

“We’d like to take you in for questioning now,” an officer says- a tall brunette with a blue uniform and a kind face. Your cellmate is nowhere to be seen- most likely also taken for questioning, and you quietly get up and comply.

She doesn’t say much on the way.

You are surprised that there are no handcuffs involved, considering you were locked up, but she does shoot a concerning look toward the back of your head where the blood had clotted and made a little nest.

You probably looked amazing.

“Officer Reyes, I’ve got the subject here,” she says sternly, swiveling and knocking on a sliding door with a curt knock. You swallow a lump in your throat and straighten your back a little, only reaching the lady’s shoulders. She was pretty damn tall.

When the door slides open, it reveals a neat office in the same white and blue tones as almost everything in the parts of the building you’d already seen- you can’t quite figure out from what organisation those colours are.

At the desk is a big man- at least his torso. Dark beanie, dark outfit, scruffy beard and tired eyes.

“You’re excused, Sarah,” he says- what it is, you don’t know, but the voice sounds like a déja-vu.

She exits with poise as you shuffle into the office a bit more.

“So, mystery girl,” he starts, finally looking up from some high-tech looking tablet.

“Hello,” you mutter, trying to blend into the door. That seemed like a good strategy.

“Care to explain why you were with Jesse McCree?” he asks casually, leaning back in his shirt.

“Ah, the cowboy?” you say with a tone barely above a whisper, and he nods, “I- uh. You’re not going to believe me when I tell you.”

Who would?

“Try me.”

He’s smirking while he gestures his hand towards the chair on the other side of his desk, and you take cautious steps before you sit down.

“Alright, so. There was a party. I got drunk. Got back home. Fell off my balcony. Ended up with the cowboy, and the rest you know,” you ramble- quick and with shaky breaths.

“Your balcony _where_?” he asks, and you finally look up into his eyes.

“Antwerpen, Belgium.”

“When did you fall?” 

You are _so_ confused that he’s not questioning any of this.

“Uh, the party was the 6th so on the night of the 6th going into the 7th,” you shrug.

“We found your phone,” he switches the subject easily, and you check your pockets. They didn’t find it, they _took_ it.

“Ah.”

“Care to explain why your calendar is set to 2019?” he casually says, putting the phone on the table.

“Because it...is...2019?” you are hesitant- it feels like some kind of trick question even though it can’t be.

“It’s 2052.”

He’s so factual and casual about it, and you can’t help the chuckle before you turn serious.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_.”

“It absolutely is,” his voice raises, clearly not in the mood for an argument.

“I was born in the nineties. Do I look like it’s 2052?” you ask with a raised eyebrow- shrugging hands, panicked face.

“There’s always implants-” 

“Oh, piss-” you quickly stop that sentence from continuing.

* * *

You were left alone with your thoughts in the office very quickly after that. You had a feeling the man barely tolerated your shit-talking, and was now fuming outside before continuing asking questions. It’d been at least half an hour.

You were proven wrong once more when someone else enters- you turn when the sliding door whooshes and find yourself eye to eye with a blonde _god_.

“Commander Morrison,” he introduces, offering his hand.

You shake it while inspecting his face- sculpted cheekbones, blue eyes, blue and white outfit.

“Commander Reyes informed me of the situation. Would you care to tell me everything in detail? I’d like to tell you we’re questioning McCree as well, so we’ll be quick to notice inconsistencies,” he says with a deep, raspy voice. 

“I’m not connected to the cowboy,” you say with a dry expression as he sits down not in front of you, but in the chair next to you.

“Coffee?” he offers, motioning to the unused machine in a corner of the office.

“That would actually be great.”

He swiftly makes two cups and you might’ve lost track of time staring at his butt. 

“So, take me back through the night,” he says when he hands you your cup, and you stir the little stick as you inhale deeply.

“I went to a party. Nicky’s ‘I finally passed Advanced Calculus’ party. Got piss-drunk, shit-faced, drunk out of my mind. Mainly wine and beer. One of my friends drove me home and got me inside my apartment, where I took off my shoes and turned on the coffee machine-”

“You’re telling me those slippers weren’t part of your outfit?” he grins, and you are startled. What a different vibe from the other guy. Are they pulling a good cop-bad cop scenario on you? Even if they were, you were falling for it. You return his grin with a smirk.

“Not quite, though it would’ve been hilarious.”

“So, you turned on the coffee machine, and then?”

He urges you on by leaning his arms on his knees, but he’s so huge he’s still at eye level with you.

“Opened my door- the wrong way, it’s a bad door- and I tumbled off of the balcony,” you continue, pausing when you see his eyebrow raise.

“Didn’t call for help?”

“Panic reaction. And there was nobody in the building, the occupants were at a party hosted by the owner of the building.”

“I see,” he notes, making a hand motion that urges you to continue.

“So I fell. I live on the 6th floor, and there’s nothing but hard concrete and some ill-placed shrubberies. And then when I woke up, I was in whatever place the cowboy-”

“McCree.”

“-yes, him, was. I thought he’d kidnapped me, but then he said something about how he’d been ro-”

You pause. It somehow seems rude to tell them what he’d been up to.

“He’d been busy that night, and had never seen me before. I puke, he threatens, you people storm the place.”

“You realize it’s hard to believe, right?” his eyes are solemn.

“I’m still trying to get myself to believe it, dude,” you say, staring into your cup, wrapping your hands around it tighter, “but I’m not lying. Neither is my cell phone. I’m not a programmer, I’m studying languages. So that’s not an option either.”

“We didn’t even explore that option considering how ancient your cell phone is.”

“Wow, rude,” you joke, cracking a small smile- you look up and find he is returning the gesture.

“We’ll have to keep you on the premises, but considering your disorientation and the fact that you can’t be found in any criminal records, we’d like to offer you a room with one of our recruits.”

“That’s fine- I don’t really have a place to stay right now anyway. What will happen to-”

“The cowboy?” he autocompletes for you.

“Yeah. Is he really a bad dude?” 

“He’ll be taken in for further questioning, but he’s not really complying.”

“Ah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll always have a little crush on Jack Morrison.

**Author's Note:**

> Rework of Banana Slippers! I'm back, baby.


End file.
